Seffy stared a little and rubbed some dust out of his eyes. He was
pleasant but dull.
"Yassir, Sef, if you'd a-got yere at a inch and a quarter apast! Now
Sam's got her. Down in the cellar a-licking molasses together! Doggone
if Sam don't git eferysing--except his due bills. He don't want to be no
anchel tell he dies. He's got fun enough yere--but Seffy--you're like
the flow of molasses in January--at courting."
This oblique suasion made no impression on Seffy. It is doubtful if he
understood it at all. The loafers began to smile. One laughed. The old
man checked him with a threat of personal harm.
"Hold on there, Jefferson Dafis Busby," he chid. "I don't allow no one
to laugh at my Seffy--except chust me--account I'm his daddy. It's a
fight-word the next time you do it."
Mr. Busby straightened his countenance.
"He don't seem to notice--nor keer--'bout gals--do he?"
No one spoke.
"No, durn him, he ain't no good. Say--what'll you give for him, hah?
Yere he goes to the highest bidder--for richer, for poorer, for better,
for worser, up and down, in and out, swing your partners--what's bid? He
ken plow as crooked as a mule's hind leg, sleep hard as a 'possum in
wintertime, eat like a snake, git left efery time--but he ken ketch
fish.
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